


Texture and Context

by nausicaa_of_phaeacia



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Post "Chosen", Post Season 07, Post Series, Post Sunnydale, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa_of_phaeacia/pseuds/nausicaa_of_phaeacia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Sunnydale: Buffy is working for the Council in London and Willow sends her to do some research in the Council's archives. She bumps into something that fundamentally changes her perception of the relationship she's had with Giles in Sunnydale and decides to set things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in one go ... as always (I'm a pretty impatient person).   
> Of course, I don't own anything but what is obviously mine (including all the mistakes).

It had been years and years since Sunnydale had vanished. She was working with Willow now, in London, doing research for the Council and giving classes of all useful sorts to young Potentials. Life had become extremely quiet, in comparison to Sunnydale, that is. With no Hellmouth on the earth's surface, the Slayer's life had grown as similar to normal as it could. It wasn't exactly boring; Buffy learned a lot about magic and history and all kinds of mysticism, and even deepened her knowledge of different kinds of Martial Arts. Dawn had been admitted to Oxford, giving her the occasional sweet phone call and developing into such a fascinating and intelligent young woman that it scared her sister at times. Xander, too, had become a member of the Council and earned his money training newly gathered Potentials from all over the world in different kinds of combat and tactics; he worked in Bath, close to the place where Giles' former coven was situated, thus also maintaining the Council's relations with the magicians there. 

Giles had moved to the countryside, to a village whose name Buffy kept forgetting, distancing himself from everything that had to do with slaying. She refused to believe he had stopped doing research, but she knew he'd had enough of, well, active combat. Not that there was a need for slayage at the moment anyway. She could very well imagine him patrol the local cemetery on occasion, though. 

Their contact had faded to the occasional birthday or Christmas card. Willow was better at writing letters than she was, and sometimes, Buffy blamed herself for letting him retreat. They had always had a sort of bond holding them together. Obviously, it had been severed numerous times and wasn't what it once had been anymore. But she knew she still had to have a friend in him. It was their destiny to be loyal to each other, but she had always been aware of the fact that there was much more to their relationship than destiny. She couldn't even define it properly. It was family, it was friendship, but it was more than that: They had always been akin to each other in a way: strong, loyal, with intangible principles, stubborn, prone to shoulder guilt and seemingly never genuinely happy - but also very generous, humourous, kind and quick to relinquish or sacrifice. They were soulmates of some sort, but then again, she had never allowed herself to muse on that. 

Currently, she was - in a way as civilized as possible - rummaging through the Council's archives of Tower Hamlets on Willow's behalf. The witch herself had to give intensive classes during Council Week, welcoming the newly arrived Potentials and introducing them to the whole organization that was the Council. Buffy discovered she had grown to be okay with research; as much as she had hated it in her younger years, she had learned to appreciate written and printed sources as a means of strategical information. Willow had written her a long list of manuscripts and books she required, partly for performing demonstrational spells for the young Potentials to copy, partly for further research she had been assigned to do on a paranormal phenomenon in Northern Scandinavia.

The archives were of seemingly endless nature; corridors followed corridors, all stuffed with rows and rows of books, the slightly musty smell of books never subsiding. Yet, Buffy had to admit she enjoyed pacing up and down the hallways, one moment disappearing between the pages of a large incunabulum, the next gently caressing the withered pages of a parchment manuscript. The Council had given her permission to photocopy what she needed, so she spent a lot of her time walking to and from the copy machine, always making sure she knew exactly where she had to put back the objects of her research. Needless to say, some years earlier, she wouldn't have put up with even half of the work amount she was handling now. Patience had always been an unattainable virtue during her teenage years; although her life was still characterized by an undescribably permanent restlessness, Sunnydale's fall had invoked a new kind of calmness within her which helped her adjust to all the new requirements a Hellmouth-less world imposed upon her.

Page after page, Buffy duplicated; most of what she found, she couldn't decipher, but Willow would know what to make of it. She had lost count of all the ragged spines and turned-down corners her fingertips had brushed during this week. Hell, she had almost spent twenty-four hours a day in the archives, only leaving to shower and sleep, the Guardian of the archives, an adorably motherly Mrs. Lavender, bringing her sandwiches and vacuum flasks of black tea.

When Buffy brought back what she thought to be the last element to be duplicated for Willow, she noticed an oddly intact, blue spine close to the gap to where she put back a horribly heavy print by some Alessandro Girandola of Florence. Peeking over her shoulder for a moment, she decided to pull it out. It was small and plain, and leather-clad, but elegant - much like a journal. Not being able to shake the feeling of doing something forbidden, she opened it, unable to resist her curiosity. What she read on the first page almost sent her flying down backwards onto the floor, and bumping her head on the shelf behind her, she silently thanked the Council for leaving so little space between rows; an army of solid books behind her had kept her on her feet. She blinked twice, nervously, then read the words again: "Watcher's Journal. Rupert Giles, Sunnydale, California, USA (Buffy Summers). Written in accordance with the Council's regulations."

Buffy felt her heart's pace accelerate, although she didn't know why. She was so nervous she put the small book back where it belonged, only to pull it out seconds later and sit down in a corner between shelves to read it. Terrified of what Giles could have written about her, her fingers trembled as she turned the pages. Several paragraphs into his writing, she settled a little; what he said about her wasn't much different from what she had expected him to think of her. Having left her teenage years behind, she was even able to smile at some of the events he had written down, remembering her stubbornness and impertinence, as well as her fickleness and occasional rambling. Giles had kept his telling as objective and factual as possible, but she couldn't help reading between the lines that he had observed her in a very loving way. The first time she was shocked was when she read about the events of the Cruciamentum. Actually, she had expected the journal to end there, as Giles had been fired, but to her surprise, the incident was described at what wasn't even half of the little book, so there had to be more. Flicking the pages faster and faster, she couldn't calm down until she read about his inner conflict about testing her, and his guilt after the deed, and then let out a long sigh. It was partly of relief, although she had learned already back then how difficult the Cruciamentum had been for him, too; but partly it was also of gratitude that he had been on her side all along. Re-reading as he told the course of events from - naturally - his own point of view, she came to understand even better the merciless battle he had been fighting against himself during the test, and from then on after. 

Of course, Buffy had never been stupid: she had realized years ago how much Giles had sacrificed for her in giving up his job by meddling with the test. But now, it all seemed to sink in even more. Briefly, she lifted her eyes from the book to stare at the rows and rows of dusty books that seemed to judge her. Before she could lower them again to continue reading, Mrs. Lavender interrupted her with a gently cough. "Miss Summers, dear, I will be closing for the evening - do you need to stay or can I lock up?"  
Confused, Buffy looked at the elderly lady, then gave a little smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Lavender, I think it's for the better if I stay and keep reading, I haven't quite found what I need yet. Is it okay with you if you just lock me in?"  
The smile was returned. "Of course, dear, if you can't trust the Slayer, well, who else can you trust, am I right?" Buffy received a small wink and smiled. "Thank you. See you in the morning."

Having gained some distance from her read because of the brief interruption, Buffy's mind started racing, and she remembered many more occasions upon which Giles had gone out of his way to support her. It wasn't the first time she realized she had done him wrong during their later Sunnydale years, and actually treated him very badly, but everything seemed so much clearer now that she was able to see things through his eyes. She plunged into his handwriting again and stayed almost immobile through the next few hours, only moving to turn the pages, and to, occasionally, yawn in a restrained manner. It had grown dark much faster than she had anticipated, and she was well into the journal when she realized it was well past midnight. Putting her index finger between the pages so as to remember where she had stopped, she got up and walked over to the armchair on one of the corridors, memorizing the spot where she was to return Giles's journal. Sitting down, she let out a contented sigh; this was much more comfortable. She re-opened the blue book and proceeded with her reading. 

When she closed the book at dawn, it was still foggy and greyish outside. She rubbed her eyes and stood up slowly, walking up to the half-open window and supporting herself on the window-sill to look outside. Sunk in thought, she let her eyes wander over the blurred outline of the city. Undeniably, the journal had been an interesting read. Naturally, she found herself unable to agree with everything Giles had stated, but to her surprise, shared most of Giles' viewpoints on slaying matters. The night had brought her moments of tears, of heartbreak, of good laughter at Giles' sarcastic way of narrating, of pride at discovering how rebelliously he protested against the Council's statutes, and of warmth upon learning of his feelings for her which surfaced only sometimes, but more obviously when he had written about her death, and her resurrection. He had taken the journal with him when he had left, and his entries stopped after he had returned to England for the second time. She figured that at that point, he really hadn't seen himself as her Watcher or role model at all anymore, and now, leaning out of the window, cried about it. 

She really hadn't treated him the way he would have deserved it. Certainly, not everything that had forced a wedge between them had been her fault, but indeed, most of it had. She wondered if her instincts that had pushed him away so far had been due to her being the Chosen One, or if that was just a part of having to grow up too soon. She opted for neither; obviously, while many of her actions had been understandable, most of them had been a result of how lost she had been, and how eager to hide from reality. At a passing breeze, she shivered; still clenching the little book to herself, she asked herself how much of the pain she had caused Giles she could have avoided. Stubbornly, like a child that is caught doing something forbidden, she wiped away her tears. It wasn't as though he hadn't made any mistakes. Goddamnit, he had _left_ her after all. She knew why he had done it, but it didn't seem reason enough; and while she wanted nothing more than to forgive him - so that he could, maybe, one day, forgive her, too - she wondered if she was going to find it in herself to do it. Then, as she closed the window because she found herself trembling with cold, she remembered what Giles' nightmare had been when they had tried to fight Billy's: her death. Slowly, in pace with the sunrays that unfalteringly climbed up the facade across the street, it dawned on her what her leap from the tower must have put him through. She walked back to the shelf where she had found the journal and collected the stacks of copies she had made for Willow. After a moment of consideration, she decided not to put the little blue book back. Instead, she hid it inside her leather jacket which she now quickly slipped into in order to make her goosebumps retreat. Heaving the piles of paper, she left the archives in deep thought, almost bumping into Mrs. Lavender who seemed to magically appear behind all the paper Buffy carried. She was greeted most kindly and handed a paper bag with sandwiches and tea, like on every morning. After engaging in a very brief, but cheerful chitchat about how she had spent the night researching and her lack of sleep, Buffy took her leave and smilingly promised to visit the archives more often (after all, she didn't leave too far away). 

Sighing her relief as she finally put the stack of paper down on her own couch table, she immediately picked up the phone to call Willow. She had to take leave; she needed a few days to herself to process what she had read. Right now, she didn't even feel up to solving a problem as simple as deciding what to wear with a pair of jeans, so muddle-headed was she. Willow wasn't too happy at the news, she had to take care of all the newcomers, after all, but Buffy promised to be back on duty in two weeks. Her friend sighed, but agreed; she'd manage, she was always managing, although, to be fair, Buffy had grown incomparably much more responsible since they had left Sunnydale. Buffy promised to ring Faith and send her to help out, and Willow quietened down. Before their goodbyes, Buffy promised her friend to leave her house key under her doormat so the witch could come and pick up the harvest of Buffy's research. 

With the precision of a tornado, Buffy packed one of her suitcases, simply throwing everything she deemed necessary into it and sitting on it defiantly as she tried to zip it shut. She couldn't stop thinking about Giles, and even though she couldn't claim she had suddenly understood his actions, she felt the need to let him know she had really tried to. It had simply been for far too long that they had been apart. Understandably, Giles had kept his distance from "the business" and tried to build up a more peaceful life away from it all; but Buffy felt a tiny reproach climbing up and down her chest at the thought that away from _it all_ automatically had meant _away from her_ , too. She knew she was being unreasonable when she spontaneously reserved a train ticket to the East by phone. 

The train ride seemed to take an eternity, and she had to change several times, but with her mind on what she had read, trying to resolve all the muddle between Giles and her that had formed itself during the past few years, she didn't feel the inconveniences of the trip at all. Only when she called a cab to get from Penzance to Sennen Cove, the absurdity of it all hit her. Here she was, a Southern Californian girl, the Slayer, barely settled down in a freshly changed adult life that suddenly involved peace and quiet, far away from everything she had ever called home, abruptly running away from archive research to tell a man she hoped to once have been close friends with that she had read his diary of sorts. She laughed at herself; what was she expecting? That all the horribleness they had created between them and that still hung in the air, although they had long wordlessly reconciled, like an elephant in the room, would suddenly dissolve if only she told him she knew some of the thoughts now which he had never meant for her to see?  
It just wasn't as simple as that. 

She couldn't claim to know him. It gave her an ache when she realized how little she knew _about_ really get to know him, as much as she had loved him. Yes, loved him, that was undeniable to her now. He had been the only constant in her life for many years, even if he had broken the streak later on; even then, she had known he'd be there for her in an instant if only she had told him she needed him. Heaving her suitcase into the cab herself before the driver could even get out, she felt a strong urge to slap herself. One would think there were only so many mistakes one could make, and yet, she now saw she had hurt him in more ways than she could probably have thought of had she consciously tried. After leaving the driver with brief instructions, she flicked through the small journal again, hiding from a shallow conversation with the elderly, stout man who grinned at her as if she were a cash prize. 

Who knew if she'd be welcome at his place at all. She didn't doubt that he was still loyal to her, but after all that had happened, and with the amount of time that had passed since they had last seen, or even heard each other, she wondered whether he'd still be able to look her in the eye, to smile at her and accept her as the friend she now desperately wanted to be. It was clear to her that she would never be able to make up to him, even if she hadn't been the only one to make mistakes. Some of the things she had done simply _had_ to be unforgivable. But she hoped with all her heart that the insight she had just - illicitly - gained from his writings would be worth _something_. Maybe it wasn't too late yet to pick up their relationship where they had abandoned it. She almost stumbled over her suitcase when she pulled it up to the beautifully isolated little cottage by the seaside. She held her breath as she pushed her index finger onto the small red button to ring at his door.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy goes to see Giles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in one go, again. Hope you like it. I own everything that's obviously mine. :)

She breathed out audibly when she heard him open the door. The smile on his face was priceless, and undeniably infectious. "Buffy," Giles exclaimed happily and hugged her quickly, and she was happy to hug him back. It didn't last long, but it gave her hope that things wouldn't go as badly as she had envisioned them mere seconds ago. "What a surprise!" he said and motioned inside, inviting her in. In a matter of moments, she pulled her suitcase up the steps and into his living room.  
"Very nice, Giles. I can see why you like it here," she said with a knowing smile. He responded taking a tiny bow. "Thank you. I needed something different. To, um, get away from the whole-"  
"Slayage business?"  
"Yes." His eyebrows nodded, his expression growing a little more serious. Buffy felt as if she were intruding and shyly took a step towards him.  
"Is it okay that I just burst into here? Without, um, calling before?" Her words seemed to wake him from a trail of thought he had pursued. He managed a kind smile. "Of course, Buffy, you know I'm always happy to see you. Why don't you make yourself comfortable? On the couch?" He went to the kitchen. "Tea?"  
She couldn't help but smile. Some things were - thank God! - never going to change. "Yes, please."

She took of her coat and hung it over a chair that seemed to be buried in books. Again, she smiled. She had known he would never give up researching. Deep in thought again, she ran her index finger over the spines of the books. In the kitchen, Giles desperately tried to keep it together, and as he propped his arm on the kitchen cupboard, he had a strong sense of déjà-vu. He remembered the time she had run away, and how Joyce had convinced him it had been his fault. How he had barely been able to form words when she returned. The kettle's whistling sound interrupted his thoughts and he quickly put together a tray with cups and milk and sugar, balancing it to the couch table, the kettle in his right. The clinking of the cups against each other compelled Buffy's attention and she turned around, smiling. She joined him on the couch and said with a smirk, "I see you haven't stopped picking interesting reads." He smiled back. "So it seems. You know how it is: old habits."  
"Yeah."  
He poured the tea and they stirred their cups in unison.

"So, Buffy, what brings you here? You seem to have planned ... quite a trip." He glanced at her suitcase, and for the first time since her arrival, she felt genuinely embarrassed. "Well, I, um ... I came to see you. It's been far too long since we've seen each other. And the cards don't really do it for me. Willow is much more of a correspondence type than I am. And you're so far away, this is like literally the end of the world here, not that it's not beautiful, but even London is too far away from here. And you know what the Council's like, it's not as if they grant you much free time. You could have come I guess, but I understand that you don't want anything to do with the _business_ anymore, guess it's only fair that you get to stay away. But you're an idiot if you think I didn't miss you, and it's not as if you couldn't have called, and anyway, Dawn misses you like hell and it's all just-"  
She was rambling so feverishly that she didn't notice his wide smile; when he interrupted her gently, she almost spilled her tea.  
"Buffy."  
Startled, she looked at him, her insecurity all over her expression. Questioningly, she raised a brow and took a sip from her cup without lowering her eyes from his.

"I'm glad you came all the way to the end of the world to visit me," he said warmly, making her smile shyly. He felt his heart leap at the thought that there were parts of her which, in spite of everything, hadn't changed at all. "It's been a long time, indeed," he said, furrowing his brows slightly. As she put down her cup, he started to clean his glasses, and she understood it was her turn to lead. "A lot of, um, crap has happened between us," she said cautiously. He nodded, and, putting his glasses back on, poured both of them more tea. He motioned towards the kitchen and she understood he was going to put the kettle on again for more tea. She swallowed as he stood up and her eyes followed him to the kitchen. Stirring her refilled cup, the expression on her face became very serious. "I know we can't go back, and I know that most of the bad stuff is my fault, Giles. But I'm truly sorry. I know you won't get anything out of an apology, but I had to tell you. It's really been a long time and while I'm still the same old Buffy, I have changed. Or at least, I've tried my best to change. And I've had plenty of time to realize things. Mistakes I've made." She heard him grab the kettle again and when he was turning back towards her, leaving a trail of steam as he entered the living room again, she looked him in the eye. "I'm really sorry. I know I've hurt you." He put the kettle on the couch table with a little more force that he'd intended to.

Sighing, he sat down beside her. "That's true. But, erm, you know you're not the only one who's made mistakes."  
"Maybe, but I've clearly been the one who's been lashing about and mowing down everyone. Stupid, that's me. Hope that's changed." He couldn't help but chuckle a little at that, and she felt it relieve her enormously. As she went back to stirring her cup again, she said, "Maybe you can forgive me one day."  
Suddenly, the look in his eyes grew very warm, and she seemed surprised to see it change, then understood that he already had forgiven her years ago. Before he could say anything - and he couldn't, because he was caught in her eyes - she almost smiled, then said, "Thank you." He gave her a brief nod, his eyes smiling while his lips couldn't.

It had grown dark outside while they had been talking, and Buffy felt uncomfortable making herself stay overnight at his place without warning. Before she could apologize again, however, he stood up and said, his tone a little lighter than would have been necessary, "Will the couch be comfortable enough for you or would you rather I slept down here so you could have my bed?" She wasn't sure whether she had heard any sarcasm in his question or not, so she smiled and said, "The couch will be more than perfect." He nodded and went to the bathroom to bring her some sheets, then carefully made her bed on the brown couch while she stood by the bookshelves, hugging herself as she watched. He could feel her insecurity without even looking at her. There was nothing for which he would have longed more in that moment than to ask her how long she had planned on staying, but decided against posing the question. 

"Thank you very much, Giles," she said when he was finished, and for a split second he thought she had meant more than the sheets. She, on the other hand, felt herself want to run away from it all and losing all the courage she had gathered so defiantly when hopping on the train and wished she could dissolve into thin air. He ran his fingers through his hair, then proceeded to clean his glasses. The gesture was so familiar that she wished to hug him, only she didn't know how to close the gap between the two of them. "Well," he said, pocketing his glasses, the exhaustion that had followed him for years suddenly showing in his expression. He gestured towards the stairs. "I'll-I'll be upstairs, then. You'll find towels in the bathroom. If you need anything else, j-just let me know." She smiled. "Thanks." He briefly lifted his chin, as if to say something else, then seemed to reconsider and slowly walked up the stairs. She was forced to sigh and could only hope he hadn't heard. 

More quickly than would have been necessary, she changed, then brushed her teeth, grimacing at herself in the mirror. It had to be a myth that growing up into an adult automatically made you a mature person. She frowned at herself, feeling incredibly childish. What had she thought, running to him like a scared child, forcing him to welcome her when he had clearly distanced himself from everything connected to his past as a Watcher? She almost stomped back to the living room, turning off the light and snuggling onto the couch. Quickly, she braided her hair, then leaned over to her handbag in the dark and pulled out Giles' journal. Switching on the small lamp on the couch table, she began to read again, discovering that this time, she found more comfort in some of the passages than she had while in London. She wished he had continued to write after his second return to England. Granted, there weren't too many pages left, but she longed to know what he thought of her now. What he had thought of her when he had returned to Sunnydale. When they had fought Caleb. And after they had escaped, with the Hellmouth finally closed. Thinking about it, she realized she wished to know what Giles thought of her as a woman. Or rather, now that she was a woman, she corrected herself mentally. Then it occurred to her that the journal would have been destroyed if he had brought it back to California and admitted she preferred to know some things than nothing. 

Upon reading most of the diary again, skipping the parts which she knew spoke mostly about research and combat, she paid much more attention to the details and to the way Giles put things, smiling at his wording more than previously. In the archive, she had more or less rushed through the whole book, unable to read it patiently, in a hurry to know everything. Now, she came to appreciate the nuances of his writing, the elegance of how he phrased things, and once again, his fine sarcasm which surfaced delightfully regularly. She had already noticed how lovingly he spoke of her sometimes, trying to stay objective in his descriptions but unable to hide his affection for her completely. For a moment, it occured to her that Travers had possibly read Giles' journal when he'd come to Sunnydale for the Cruciamentum, and that her Watcher's wording had probably also contributed to the Council's decision to fire him. She sighed. Poor Giles. He would have deserved better.

When she got to the part where she had asked him to be her Watcher again, she found she had overlooked a whole page. Reading it, her eyes grew wider and wider, and she felt a sudden surge of anger which she instantly tried to suppress. He had planned to leave her - to go back to England. His description of the situation was very matter-of-fact (even though he'd allowed himself a few personal stances since his dismissal), but knowing how much Giles used to mask his emotions, and how he used words to express himself in writing, she gasped upon realizing how lost he must have felt back then - and how profoundly she must have changed his mind by asking him to be her Watcher again. It brought tears to her eyes to realize he had simply needed to feel, well, needed. And how needed he had been! She wished she had told him what she felt more often. With a sarcastic grin, she said to herself that Giles was probably able to count the times when she had really told him about her feelings on the fingers of one hand. She flipped the pages to almost the end of the book, re-reading what he had written about leaving her. And how right he had been to go ... she had still not been grown up, not been taking her life into her own hands. Not when it didn't come to slaying, at least. He had given her the chance to do so, but how she would have preferred if he could have shown her without abandoning her, and the others, too. She clapped the journal shut and held it to her chest again. He had wanted her to become independent, and to come out of the haze she had been hiding in ever since her resurrection. To realize which things in life were worth fighting for. But she had been so grateful when he had returned. Gazing up to the ceiling, she remembered him asking her for forgiveness when he came back, after they had laughed in the training room, and she knew she had forgiven him already, but forgotten that she had. She cursed the fact that everyone was so prone to holding grudges when in reality, forgiving wasn't that much of a challenge. What had he told her? That one was to forgive others because they needed it. And she knew she needed to be forgiven, too, even if she had never explicitly apologized to him. 

Reaching over to the couch table, she turned off the lamp. Outside, the dark was beginning to retreat again. Very carefully, she slid the journal beneath her pillow, then leaned back and folded her hands above her belly. She knew she wasn't really going to be able to sleep. Sighing, she wondered, again, why he had sticked with her for so long. Why he had never actually given her up, why he had abandoned her, and yet returned. Why he had stood up against the Council, and stayed with her although he had been released from his duties, although Angelus had tortured him to pieces, although she herself had pushed him away with all her strength, although she had never come to appreciate his support and help again later. She blinked in the dark, and a tiny thought crept into her heart as she tried to see behind the words which Giles had written down, and tried to imagine what he would have written, had he continued to make entries into the journal. She wondered if he even knew it had been at the Council's archives; it was entirely possible that they had secretly, or forcefully collected it from him. Ushering away her thoughts about the Council, she started to give the tiny thought more and more room, like a small flame which grows into a warm fire, and suddenly thought she understood.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, again, for reading! :) Comments/reviews/kudos make my day, as always! Another chapter to follow very soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy is staying on Giles' couch. Both are pondering the things that have happened between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in one go, again. I own all my mistakes and all the other nonsense I produce :)

Upstairs, Giles tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep for even a minute. All he could think about was Buffy, the Buffy who was his Slayer, who had seemed miles and miles and miles away from him in every meaning of the word, and who was now lying on his couch, "at the end of the world". He couldn't figure out why she would have come. Certainly, she had told him it was a surprise visit, and he believed her. But he didn't understand why she would come now, why she would suddenly ring at his door without announcing herself, and with a suitcase of a size that suggested she had planned to stay for more than just one or two nights.

He thought of all the moments when he had felt their bond, their connection that had gone further than a plain friendship would have, and cursed himself for not being able to act out of character and having told her how he had felt more often. Of course, there had been occasions. Smiling, he thought of the ridiculous fit of laughter they had shared in the training room when he had returned to Sunnydale. That was one of the moments he was in the habit of reminding himself of whenever a joyful memory seemed necessary to make him able to go on with a dreadful day, or to fight a horrible surge of torturing memories. He drew the blanket closer around him and told himself he should never have abandoned her. His whole life had been about her, and rightly so, and he should never have run away from the responsibility of protecting her, no matter how hard she had pushed him away, and then exaggeratedly relied on him. It had never purely been about his duty as a Watcher. It had been about their relationship, and about trying not to stand in her way. He would have done, no, he _had_ done everything for her, everything he had been able to think of, and still, he deemed himself infinitely stupid and powerless - for not realizing what she had needed, and for putting himself first at moments when she would have deserved his undivided attention. 

Now, she was lying downstairs on his couch, and he was clueless as to what to make of it. She had told him she had missed him, and he knew from the look he had seen in her eyes that it was true - but she could have called him. Why, then, was she here? Why had she come in a rush? He had seen the edge of a sleeve hanging out of her suitcase and was sure she would have packed properly if she had planned the trip thoroughly. Why was she staying overnight? He realized he was holding his breath and crossly turned around in bed to face the wall. No, he wasn't supposed to let himself hope for things. He loved her, of that he was sure, and the attention he had been obliged to grant her, and which he had so willingly given her, had always - with minuscule exceptions - kept him from letting any other woman capture him. Not that he had thought of Buffy romantically; that was out of the question, and to be honest, he hadn't considered her as anything else than his protegé, his child, his friend, or the Slayer, which was a lot, already. Again, he felt there had been more to their bond than just that, or just friendship, but he was unable to name it. It had consisted of a weird feeling he now felt somewhere beneath his left ribs and which seemed to stifle him from the inside, threatening to make his chest combust spontaneously, and he couldn't get a grasp of what it meant.

He turned around again, moaning quietly, and switched on his bedside lamp, finding his glasses. It wasn't exactly that he needed them - he didn't, anymore, the long-sightedness he had developed a few years ago slowly made good the myopia he'd had since his childhood - but he, too, had discovered they gave him a weird sense of security. He put them on for clarity, even if it wasn't really clarity of physical vision he needed, and sat up, piling up two pillows behind himself to lean against. That he wasn't going to find sleep during this night anymore, he was certain. He had so tried to flee "the business", as she had called it, and everything that was bound to go with it, and implicitly, to flee _her_ , too - and there she was, in his liviing room. He couldn't put his finger on why exactly he had also, indirectly, run away from her; he had only known back then that he had to, that he was probably expected to do so. Gathering all his courage, he had moved to Sennen Cove, into this cottage he had inherited from a distant aunt as early as during his student years. In his Ripperish youth, he had not, of course, given a damn about it, but now the secluded little house had seemed to be the perfect retreat from, well, everything, or at least from everything he had known, and from everyone who had known him. He knew he wouldn't have borne it at her side even a moment longer - not as the odd one out, watching her tend to all kinds of affairs that required her to be independent and, well, lonely, as it seemed. It occured to him that she probably wasn't leading the happiest of lives. But then again, he couldn't have named one among the survivors who was. 

Now that she had finally grown into the adult he had always wished for her to become, he found himself feeling more useless than ever. As ridiculous as it seemed, he had always wanted to be the one standing behind her, supporting her, being relied on. And as much as it had hurt her that he had left, it had hurt _him_ even more when he had returned to England for the second time. Of course, being her Watcher was his destiny, and even his dismissal hadn't been enough to scare him away from that responsibility, but he had felt more for her than just what the duty of his calling had required him to feel. There, again, was the weird feeling behind his ribs, and he briefly covered the respective spot on his chest with his left hand. He wondered if there was some secret to finding one's path in life that everyone but him seemed to know about, because he knew he wasn't yet settled into this life that didn't require him to be a Watcher, or more precisely, this life that didn't require her. He took a deep breath and felt the need to hold his chest, again, for the unsettling feeling inside him hadn't subsided yet. Restless, he sat up completely again, bringing his feet down the side of the bed, ruffling his hair, then putting his glasses on the nightstand again to rub his tired eyes.

God, how he had missed her. Loosely wrapping his nightgown around himself, he carefully crept out of his room and down the stairs, almost noiselessly opening the terrace door behind the staircase to go outside, leaning it almost shut behind himself, and to sit on the treshhold, his back to the couch where she was sleeping, his hands and head on his knees.

After a few minutes of indecisiveness, Buffy decided to join him. Very carefully in order not to scare him, she crept up to him and gently put a hand on his right shoulder. He shivered, then looked up to her, his look questioning, but not shocked. She smiled cautiously, then crouched down to sit beside him silently. "Couldn't sleep," he said after what seemed a small eternity, his voice a little husky. She smiled again when he ruffled his hair. "Me neither," she replied, her voice very soft. The strange feeling in his chest mixed with the lovely surprise at the warmth in her words and he feared he was to explode any moment. Buffy, in turn, fought with herself, not sure whether to grant the small flame of suspicion inside her more room, or to stifle it. Indecisive, she simply leaned her head against her shoulder, burying her cheek in the crook of his neck. She felt him tense for a split-second, then relaxing into her touch, making her cheer inwardly. 

"I've missed you too," he half-whispered, his voice still a little husky, and felt her smile into his shoulder. Without giving himself time to think about it, he wrapped his arm around her. "Well, you have no idea how ... different life is without you," she replied. He chuckled. "If it's any similar to, er, my life without you, I think I can relate."  
"I guess," she laughed. "It's so weird. I mean I'm working for the Council, and I'm still doing all this slayage related stuff, training, researching, being a role model and all," she said, not without irony in her voice, "but it still feels as though I weren't the Slayer anymore."  
"Well ... I know I made a different choice, but it's the other way round for me. I turned my back on the 'business' as you call it, and I think I can't stop feeling like your Watcher."  
"My Watcher."  
He bit his lip. _A_ Watcher, he had meant to say. "Yes."  
She lifted her head again, and he found himself regretting the sudden lack of her touch. "To be honest, Giles, I am still restless, too. I don't feel like the Chosen One anymore, but there is this feeling I can't shake, the horrible feeling that something's missing from my life. I don't know what or who it is, but it's like this stupid gap that keeps reminding me that my life used to be different. Don't get me wrong, I'm fine. But it's not the way it should be." He nodded, and they gazed at the horizon where a light that wasn't quite orange or yellow yet slowly started to spread.

"I miss Sunnydale. I mean, I miss a lot of things, but I miss the whole Watcher/Slayer package, too. Training, research, reprimands." He grinned at her list. "Fighting, and sombreros, and the Magic Box," she added, then smiled as she continued. "Singing, and staking, and your stupid Citroën, and having tea on your couch, and teasing you about your tweed, and having unbelievable ridiculous fits of laughter."  
He smiled as she listed exactly the moment he had thought about before in his bed. "You know, I keep reminding myself of the two of us splitting our sides laughing in the training room." She lit up even more. "Yeah?" "Yeah," he replied, and while it sounded weird, coming from him, he couldn't have given a better answer. She beamed at him, then hugged him, letting him hold her very tight. 

When they pulled apart, he said, looking at the horizon again, "It's funny. Years ago, I told Jenny - Miss Calendar - that smell is the most powerful trigger to memory there is, that it can bring up experiences we've long forgotten. I don't remember how I put it exactly, but it was something along the lines of that knowledge should have texture, it should have context." For a moment, Buffy looked confused, then said, "Let me guess. You said that knowledge gained from computers was sterile and without smells and that knowledge from books has a certain flair to it."  
He gave a crooked smile. "Something of the sort, yes. Books have the most wonderful smell." For a moment, he buried his face in his hands to rub her eyes, then looked up again. "I just remembered that because - because you still smell the same." She looked at him, waiting for him to explain, and he seemed to shrink a little under her gaze. For a split-second, he touched his temple, and Buffy knew it would have been to take off his glasses, but since he wasn't wearing any, he quickly returned his hand to his knee. "When I hugged you, I could smell your sandelwood soap and lemon shampoo. You still smell the same, and I remembered the hug I gave you after ... a-after you came back."  
She smiled, tears filling her eyes, and put one hand on his other knee. "I remember that hug." She blinked twice, then looked him in the eye. "You said I was a miracle." He held her gaze, and his eyes smiled. "Well, you are."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :) Comments etc. would make me very happy, as always!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither of them can sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, written in one go. Hope it makes sense. I own everything that came out of my head. :)

She beamed at him, and he thought he was going to melt from it. The undefinable feeling was still pressing against his ribs, and he found it terribly hard to remember to breathe. After a moment, she looked at the horizon again, and slowly, the thin line between sea and sky became bathed in a shy orange light, and after a silent exchange of looks, they both stood up to go inside. Buffy closed the door, and Giles went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. While they were waiting for the water to boil, Buffy leaned against the armrest of the couch, and he leaned against the open doorframe the connected the kitchen to the living room, just as she had seen him do it countless times in Sunnydale. Again, seeing him do something as familiar as this made her want to hug him very tight, but seeing as she had just done so mere moments ago, she commanded herself to leave it. When their gazes accidentally met, Buffy saw something in his eyes that, without her consent, allowed the small flame she had kept inside her to flare slightly and she realized she had been giving it more and more room by the minute.

When the kettle whistled, he went to get some fresh cups to put on the tray, but Buffy was quicker and was already balancing the full tray with milk and sugar etc. when he grabbed the kettle. Very careful not to drop or break anything, Buffy carried the small tray quite slowly, and before she could look up from transfixing the porcelain with a commanding gaze to stay in place, he was already on the couch and carefully setting the kettle down. As she joined him, he reached beside him to put away the pillow she had used for sleeping, discovering his own journal beneath it.

Within an instant, she understood what the matter was. He froze at the sight, then grabbed the small book and turned around to face her, angry.   
"Where did you get this?," he demanded.  
Sheepishly, she said, "I was at the archives doing research, and it-"  
"You just _bumped_ into it, eh?"  
"Well, no - yes - um, I was looking at a print by Girandola and it was almost right next to it." She blushed, and he had to fight the urge to calm down too quickly.   
"So you simply took it and read it." She looked crushed.  
"Giles, I-" She sighed and looked down. "I had to know."  
"Know what?," he retorted, but much less harshly than before.  
She didn't dare to look up. "What you think of me." His expression softened at once, but he didn't know what to reply. Finally, she looked up, her heart pounding in her throat. "Are you angry with me?," she whispered and felt like a scared child again.   
He smiled warily. "I don't want to be. I should probably just have shown you the journal. But you could have asked."  
She nodded a little, then tried to sound a little lighter. "I know, Giles. But I had to know. It's not as if you told me too frequently what you thought of me."  
He sighed. "Likewise."

She poured the tea. "I know. I haven't exactly been open you. But neither have you, you know. I just think that we - that a lot of what happened between us could have been avoided so easily, had I known what you really thought of what I did." He was about to interrupt, but she continued. "And had I told you how I felt." He subsided. "But you know how it is. Buffy and logic, unmixy things sometimes." Her last sentence made him chuckle.  
"It's not as if that hasn't happened to me, unfortunately," he replied, his brows rising as he admitted it. She seemed a little relieved. "Sorry," she grinned. He nodded and put the journal on the glass table before them. "Me too." He took a sip from his cup. "We could have made this so much easier."  
"Yeah," she agreed regretfully. "But I think we still did okay ... don't you?"  
He set the cup down. "Not everyone could have prevented, what, seven, eight apocalypses under the circumstances."  
She grinned. This was the Giles she loved. Stirring her cup briefly, she disappeared behind her tea, smiling slightly. 

"So ... Do you think any d-differently now, Buffy? A-About me." He gestured towards the journal, the fear in his voice obvious. She took one more sip before she answered. "Actually, yes."   
Within seconds, his heart had quickened its pace and was now pounding in his chest to aggressively that he was afraid she was going to hear it. God, the feeling in his chest had kept and kept expanding and for a moment, when he briefly caught her gaze, he suspected there was a name for it. The look he had given her told her more than she could even have read in the leather-bound book, and she held her breath for a moment when it dawned on her that her suspicion, that _thing_ that had been burning her from the inside ever since she had though of it - that it had been right. Giles _loved_ her, and it was written all over his face. She studied the tiny changes in his expression, saw him tremble slightly as he sat expecting her explanation, and in that moment she knew that it had to come from _her_ , that he couldn't possibly be the one to put it into words.

"Yes, I think differently of you, Giles. Not everything I have realized about you is new, it's just that there are some things I have never paid attention to. And some things I simply didn't know. And some of them, I couldn't read in there, so I tried to read between the lines and was still clueless. I can't claim I understand you now, that I know you now. But the more I read, the better I understood what you did. And I've never given you enough credit. I've never appreciated you enough. I've never really told you how much respect I have for you, and how much I look up to you." She struggled to keep her voice firm; looking at her fingers helped. "I don't think I've ever apologized _properly_. Don't think I've ever told you how much you actually mean to me, and how much I still need you, and how I would never have made it out of Sunnydale in one piece without you. Hell, I think I would probably have seen to it personally that I wouldn't survive Sunnydale at one point after my return, hadn't it been for you. Guess you didn't know that. But I know now that you know how that feels. Not wanting to go on living because the one person who keeps you on the ground, who makes the stuff in your life make sense, is gone." She heard him swallow, but didn't look up. "This is going to sound cheesy, but going through your writings finally showed me how much of a hero you really are. Don't laugh," she said preventively, "I mean it. You've been through so much, and you've been hurt and tortured and ridiculed, and you sacrificed so much because of me. For me. I know, newsflash, right? I've been really blind, Giles."  
The flame she had indulged was blazing inside her by now, and it oddly reassured her of what she was going to say. What was there to lose? Everything; and what was there to win? Everything as well. She took a deep breath and said,  
"I love you."

At that, he turned at her immediately, and as she finally looked up, she saw that there had been tears in his eyes all along. She smiled shyly, and was rewarded by a smile so genuine and beaming that she thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. "I love you too," he whispered through tears that couldn't be persuaded not to fall. The intensity with which she beamed back was priceless, but he had only a moment to appreciate it, because she threw her arms around him and held him so tight that Giles felt the pressure in his chest dissolve and send him over the moon. He squeezed her shoulders, sniffing into her shoulder while releasing a laughter so pure and so long awaited that it surpassed the moment they had shared in the training room. Buffy joined. "God, I love you too, Buffy." He held her even tighter. "I can't believe this is really happening." They pulled apart, the laughter making their faces shine in a competition that couldn't be won or lost. 

Suddenly, both regained their breath, and smilingly pulled closer to each other, until, finally, their lips met and at last proved Buffy's burning suspicion, and allowed Giles to name the feeling that had almost made him combust. They kissed again and again, holding, hugging each other, and when Giles whispered, "Texture and context," Buffy knew it was what had been missing from both of their lives.

* * * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :) This is my first chapter fic, please tell me what you think and leave comments/reviews/suggestions/kudos! ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Please leave comments etc. and make me happy :)


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